


The evils of a setting sun

by orphan_account



Category: Ghost of Tsushima (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Gen, This is, and maybe some fucking we'll see how things go, angst on angst with a side of angst, but genuinely, end notes will be updated as will pairings as things progress, kumbaya mlord, ryuzo is not in a good place, ryuzo's gonna hurt, spoilers from castle kaneda onwards, this is headed into dead dove territory, we're gonna hurt with him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There is a torch in the Khan’s hand, burning fresh and bright.“You promised food for my men,” the words leave Ryuzo’s mouth before he’s entirely decided to say them, but after all of this now -- bouncing from desperation, to a past hope, to treachery, back to desperation again -- it’s suddenly important to be clear about the stakes.“Earn it,” Khotun replies immediately -- steps in a dance, Ryuzo supposes, or else actors on a stage.**Ryuzo experiences a series of compromises.
Kudos: 12





	The evils of a setting sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, following Ryuzo starting at Castle Kaneda and moving forwards -- the first chapter is literally the opening to Act 2. I'll update the pairings and the warnings as each chapter progresses, but generally... Ryuzo isn't going through good changes, so since this is an exploration of his headspace, the tone of the story will adjust accordingly.
> 
> Notes at the end are warnings for each chapter.
> 
> Title is from Kaia Kater's "Nine Pin."

_In this same district, where linden trees now line the gates,  
people were starved and their ashes shoveled  
into a pit outside the city. My friend  
told me I can't write with rage because I'd have to abandon  
a presiding belief in beauty.  
  
The Ruins (R. Hoffman)  
_

**part one**

The details of their arrangement are sparse. The details of these sorts of things are always left fraying and unfinished, threatening to fall apart like half-braided kumihimo. Just enough room to fall apart, just enough room to become something entirely different.

Ryuzo doesn’t quite know what he expected but it wasn’t exactly this.

Straw and grass burn differently; there are different textures to the smoke and different smells. Wood, again, differently, depending on the timber too -- washi crinkling with the heat, turning the richness of the yew smoke acrid for the briefest of moments as their ash is carried on the wind. There are five people -- farmers, it looks like, from the rice fields that make up the southern border of the Shimura estate -- tied to makeshift pyres, but they’re alive and not adding to the thickening air, not yet.

The Khan is shouting something in an exuberantly joyful cadence, his vowels only catching slightly wrong, the casual language he’s using too informal in a way that seems deliberate, patronizing. Awful perhaps in what it implies. Ryuzo can’t focus on what’s being said, his attention still caught in a constant looping _what does he want what will it take_ and the image of Yoshihiro’s corpse they’d had to bury on the road up to meet the war camp, emaciated and starved to a death that had taken him in the night.

 _Why couldn’t Jin just’ve died_ Ryuzo thinks bitterly. Why had it come to this? The answer to the question lurking like some kind of curse being laughed about by his subconscious.

There’s a weight to the energy at Ryuzo’s periphery and so he looks, almost helplessly, to where Khotun is stood staring at him. _Guess negotiations broke down_ Ryuzo bites his lip, barely able to stifle the hysterical giggle that wants to crawl its way out of his throat. There is a torch in the Khan’s hand, burning fresh and bright.

“You promised food for my men,” the words leave Ryuzo’s mouth before he’s entirely decided to say them, but after all of this now -- bouncing from desperation, to a past hope, to treachery, back to desperation again -- it’s suddenly important to be clear about the stakes.

“Earn it,” Khotun replies immediately -- steps in a dance, Ryuzo supposes, or else actors on a stage.

He holds out the torch, which Ryuzo takes. He half expects the flames to hand him answers, though they stay mute beyond the heat they have to offer. Ryuzo wonders if this is where he’s meant to finally break down and cry. _Lesser men_ Ryuzo stops himself. Lesser men have died instead of burning their countrymen alive. _Why couldn’t Jin just’ve killed me_ is what suddenly crawls into his head and stays there like an uninvited guest. _Why_ Ryuzo thinks again, forcefully untwisting his face, letting his eyes catch on floating embers up into the sky instead.

The torch feels too heavy in Ryuzo’s hand, although that could simply be the numbness sparking along the skin of his thumbs and palm. It takes almost dropping it for him to realize that he started to shake as well.

“Can’t expect a man to be better than his circumstances,” and Ryuzo thinks he’s said it well enough under his breath, but it catches the ear of the man tied to the pyre closest to him, and Ryuzo makes the mistake of meeting his gaze.

He lights the pitch-covered straw and wood by the man’s feet in self-defense. The screams are immediate, but they’re anticipatory -- fear instead of pain. Ryuzo steps back, startled, almost surprised the fire takes so suddenly and so well. The heat of it makes him flinch. When the man starts wailing for real, the tears on his face turning to steam before sliding down his neck, Ryuzo raises his voice to join him.

He only has to burn one in the end. It’s not a mercy. Ryuzo has to be led inside the gates of the compound, remembers his men as an afterthought. He feels like he’s been asleep for weeks, or that maybe he’s dreaming now.

The Mongol soldier he asks -- and it’s one of the one’s with a fancy kabuto, usually in charge of a whole platoon -- says something unintelligible and derisive, before pointing over towards a corner and saying “horse shit stays by the stables,” spitting on the ground. Ryuzo makes his way over there, and sure enough, his men have made makeshift camp, with a fire and a small pot.

“They gave you rice?” he manages to ask.

“Yeah,” Kentaro, the one cooking, nods. “Not much, though. But enough for now.”

Ryuzo nods, sitting suddenly entirely unsure his legs will keep him standing much longer anyway.

“You want a bowl,” Kentaro asks, but his voice sounds muffled and distant, the crickets and soft whinnies from the stables louder and more concrete.

“No,” Ryuzo manages. “I’m not hungry.”

Kentaro snorts at that, so obviously untrue it doesn’t even count as a lie, but he also doesn’t push Ryuzo on it. There are too many of them to feed, only about five gou for fifteen men, some sick, all on at least seven days of fasting. Someone nudges him a short time later, but Ryuzo refuses to move.

He doesn’t sleep for hours.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: relatively graphic descriptions of immolation


End file.
